


Quiet Madness

by WanderingSummerBreeze



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 21:12:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10447617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingSummerBreeze/pseuds/WanderingSummerBreeze
Summary: Inspired by:The Making of OutlanderIt took about a week and a half to film the torture sequence. “With all the prosthetics and makeup involved, we were doing four hours of prosthetics in the morning before shooting,” he explains. “I’m coming in at four A.M., and then, obviously, a couple of hours at night to take it off. And then in between takes, I couldn’t just go off on my own to sit and relax. I would have to go into the makeup room and get all of the back prosthetics touched up. There’s no break in that. They were long, long days,” he remembers.“In the evening, there was the process of taking off all the makeup and prosthetics and having a shower,” he recalls. “That was kind of the way to release it all and get rid of it. Everyone would leave the studio and I would stay there and do a quick workout in the gym, just to do something. I was staying in a little bed-and-breakfast right next door to the studio because we were in so early in the morning, so I was living this strange little life. I think that helped, living in this little bubble. It felt very much like being in this prison cell and that was my little world for that week and a half.





	

It was a quiet chaos that he needed. The need to descend into complete madness to be there. I was a part of something good, he said. I was the light, and he needed the dark to be the person he needed to be…

 

***

His muscles flexed, the strength shooting out of him like a bullet. Another blow. Another shot to the bag. Another wretched feeling thrown to the wall, beaten and cursed like his body felt. He struck again, this time falling into the bag, begging for it to hit back. Fucking hit back, he cried, his arms circling the black leather, his taped fingers clutching at the smooth texture, nails digging in.

He dropped to his knees, elbows on his thighs as his clenched fists cradled his temples. He had no more to give tonight, but too much taken away.

I wanted to go to him, then. Wanted him to beat me. Wanted his bloody fists bruising my breasts, his fingers tight around my legs as he begged forgiveness. I would give it to him, if it meant he would find peace.

I stayed away, though. Stayed back, in the shadows, far from the anger of the fluorescent beacon of the gym. It wasn’t time, yet. He needed to beat himself up. Needed to take the energy of the day and bring it to its knees. But it always brought him down first. Each night he would tie a noose around his anguish of the day, fully intent on watching it dance, choking slowly, before swaying its stench of rotting flesh in the breeze as death finally stole it away. Each night I watched him fail that goal, the anguish stealing his body, sucking the life out of the man I love.

He would be back. Sam would come home. Sam would be proud that he went where Jamie needed to go.

He asked me to stay away. We had spoken but a few times during the day. As the morning glow of dawn would cross my bedroom floor, I would stretch out the kinks of sleep in my bed. I’d turn to find a message waiting for me on my phone. Each day, I’d snap the phone from my bedside table, open the harsh light to my sleepy eyes, and read a simple message. He was okay. Tired. Missing me. But okay. I would sigh and fall back into my bed. Our bed. I’d run my hand along the empty space where he would lay, his smell still lingering in the sheets.

As the day wore on, I’d get maybe a message near noon, then nothing. The day would break him down. The scenes would open his chest, pluck another piece of his soul, then bind him back together with a rusty needle and wire for thread.

We had fought so much the week prior. He had told me his plans and I had fought him.  Promised him that I would be there for him each evening, but he turned a cheek. I had to watch him leave. I wasn’t allowed to visit him. After our scenes together with Tobias, I had been broken. I hadn’t been strong enough to bear his pain, the way he did mine. Sam had taken me aside afterward, held me. I should have been holding him.

I cinched my coat tighter as we left the gym. I keept a good pace behind him, but stalked him like prey. If his stride hastened, mine did as well. When he slowed, I all but stopped. Whether he sensed me, I do not know, but each time he looked behind, the glow of his face breaking through the dark rain-filled night, I ducked into the very shadows he had been living in.

I curled my side against the brick wall in the alley of the B&B he had been staying at. Closing my eyes, I raised my face to the sky, the rain washing away all sorrow I felt in his absence.

I hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t wanted any part of being in a relationship. Scotland was supposed to be a break from that life. A chance to focus solely on my career. But there I was, just a few short months ago, enjoying a beautiful and rare sunny day with my co-star and suddenly he laughed at something he had said. A story he had been telling me, that I cannot even recall, and quite unexpectedly, my heart tripped, staggered, and fell squarely into his strong hands.

He never gave it back.

I tucked Sam’s smile away, safe in my memory, for another time, and stepped into the B&B. No one was out front, so I headed up the stairs. I waited by his door, my heart racing, my thoughts flying from one thought to the another.

Would he want me here? No. He asked me to stay away. Would he throw me out? I don’t think he had the strength. Nor I, if asked, to walk away.

I tried the door, it wasn’t locked. I opened it, walking in a few steps. Light from the street cast a ghostly shadow across the floor. He hadn’t closed the drapes, and I could see his half-naked form curled on his side, facing the door, on the bed. The dark linen sheets rested comfortably across his hips.

His eyes were open to the door. His dark, quiet, stare shocked me inside. He lay motionless, barely a rise of his chest could be seen. I undressed before him, leaving my wet clothes to gather on the floor, while a puddle quickly formed around them.

Sam moved his form back, giving me room on the bed. I sat near his hip, watching his face. I remember taking his hand from its resting place, my lips falling to the battered knuckles. I closed my eyes, bathing the cuts in my comfort. I kissed each knuckle, rubbing it across my cheek, feeling his body against mine. When I opened my eyes, I saw sadness in his.

Could he not leave Jamie be, tonight? Could he not guide himself back to the light?

I took each finger in my mouth, sucking gently, like a gluttoned newborn. The fever of starvation gone, or, at the very least, at bay, and just savouring the warmth of another body. I watched his breathing increase faintly. Just a hint of arousal in his breath, but I would set that aside for now.

When I finished with one hand, I took the other. Sam rolled on his back, as I positioned myself fully on the bed. I made love to his fingers. They were strong like him, but showed the signs of battle that needed time to heal. Time to feel loved, before they were sent to fight another day.

With the bathing complete, I pulled both of his hands to my lips, kissing each knuckle once more, before resting them on his chest.

“Turn over.”

My words spliced through the night, like a wolf cry in the wood, piercing the soul. He remained quiet. Still. Not wholly understanding the words for a moment. Slowly, he turned on his stomach, his bare back exposed to the air. I tugged the sheets down a bit and straddled his thighs. I lowered my naked body down to his back, resting my cheek against his shoulder-blade, the hard muscles, like iron, under my skin.

I listened to his breathing, waiting for our hearts to join in union. To beat the same beat. I could feel him settle beneath me, and I raised myself, my fingers tracing his back, where marks from the prosthesis had been. I gently laid a kiss along each muscle, across each crease of skin, and into each valley along his back.

His body is mighty and he pushes it hard, as he does with his mind. He craves knowledge and strives for excellence. I come alive when he’s inside my body, like he’s passing me all this joy and child wonder through his skin to mine. The most adult of acts, the most carnal of desires we express and demand of each other, almost seem childlike with him. There’s an innocence to his guilty pleasures.

And I feel alive when he’s in my mind. I can see him standing on mountain tops, waving with a wide smile plastered across his face. I can see the sadness in him when I leave him, and the proud father that beams out of him when he holds Eddie.  He’s in damn near every thought I call my own and I often wonder if it’s the same for him. But I know it is. And sometimes I hate it, and most times I love it until it hurts. Until I feel terrified that it will leave someday.

My kisses turn from sweet and tender, to passionate, as I crawl into his skin, needing his feel across my face. His taste is salty under my skin. Salt with a little mix of soap. I can’t quite smell him yet and I scrape his back gently, with my nails, eager for his arousal to bring forth the heady scent of him at his finest.

I try to push my sexual desires aside. I want to care for him. But Sam stirs beneath me, and I raise myself, so he can roll over on his back. His cock, hard and ready, rests against my ass. No. Not yet. I kiss his chest, my tongue taking a languid stroll across his nipples and through his chest hair. I feel his hands fall loosely across my back, tracing my skin, reminding himself of the touch and feel of a woman. The touch and feel of a woman that loves him.

I lay my body down, his cock trapped between us, the wetness of my centre, coating it in liquid sex. He doesn’t enter me, but we rock slowly together. I try to kiss him, but he turns away, burying his face in my hair. I can feel his chest constrict as he weeps quietly into my hair. I stop my movements, concern beating desire, but he holds my head in his hands, watching my eyes.

“No,” he says quietly, “don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He releases my head, turning into my hair once more as I begin to move in time with him. Our bodies are wet with desire. Anguish and sorrow make the strangest of bedfellows with passion. I want him inside me, filling me with all he has to give. But tonight, that is more then he can give, so I just move with him.

Our bodies speed up, and I can feel my cheek wet with his tears. I take his hand, kissing his bruised knuckles once more, while his other hand clutches my back, holding onto me for dear life. When we climax, we do it through kisses and tears, sadness and joy, our bodies soaked from our release and the strive to get there. My name, my full name – Caitriona – falls from his lips, but drowns in my hair, as we float back down into our bodies.

It’s quiet now. No sounds, but his soft breathing, sleep dragging him under.

Sam slept in my arms that night, but his body never rested. Even in sleep, his hands gripped me, fearing I would fall away.  


I never will.

I can’t live without my heart. And he won’t give it back.


End file.
